NOT A HARD DRIVE

Pole dance

 

Then there was the shaky period after grad school when I got inspired to drive my dirty old white Toyota Corolla  from Los Angeles to Washington, D.C. , where I would search for  a career.   Loaded down with everything I owned, from  a typewriter with a missing “A” to a rusty GE curling  iron to a blonde Dynel wig, I hit the road the day I finished my last class.  As I recall the course  was titled “Aging Gracefully” and I had taken meticulous notes which I still refer to nowadays as I rush toward my “golden years”.

I mapped out a southern route across the country ,and after four or five  adventurous days on the road found myself lost one evening in torrential rain, somewhere outside Knoxville, Tennessee.   As  grey skies turned  black, I decided rather than panicking, I’d pull over at a large, friendly -looking dwelling set back off the road amidst  trees.  Through the downpour, I made my way down the driveway, where I could barely make out a dimly- lit kitchen through a large picture window, where quite a few diners around a large table appeared friendly and harmless enough.

Bare in mind I was wearing a white T-shirt and cut -off jeans at the time.  Scurrying up to the door, I was greeted by a tall, burly man in suspenders.    (Yes, he had a shirt and pants on as well—you perverts.)   “Come on in little lady” he  drawled.

Wiping raindrops from my tired eyes,  I looked up to see about a dozen similar looking guys turning to gaze at the 24 year- old girl in a wet T-shirt gaping at their dinner scene.

I felt like a mirage.

As a pathetic  lost traveler in the rainy darkness, I had chosen the local firehouse as my rescue.

Poor me was given not  only directions but dinner and an invite to sleepover at the station.   I tossed the offer around inside my soggy head, then decided it best I hit the road and find cheap lodging along the way,  aptly called  “The Sand Man Motel”, if my memory serves me well.

While contemplating pole dancing and swearing I’d never indulge,  I pulled over for a good night’s rest, vowing to worry about tomorrow  tomorrow… .

 

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